Past of a Beginning
by Sita Z
Summary: After more than twenty years of trying to put the past behind him, Malcolm receives a letter.


Past of a beginning

AN: First of all, big thanks to Gabi and T'eyla for betaing!

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Warning

: There is graphic violence in this story; no blood and gore, but it might still "squick" you out.

As always, feedback is very welcome!

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The past is but the past of a beginning.

"Don't play with your food, Malcolm."

Mum's voice startled Malcolm. His fork slipped through his fingers and would have clattered onto the edge of the plate, had he not gripped it so hard that his fingers hurt as they tightened around it. If the fork had hit the plate, had maybe chipped its edge... Malcolm didn't even want to think about it. Carefully, he speared a piece of broccoli and lifted it to his mouth, relieved when it went inside without leaving a mess. Every piece of food he ate was accompanied by a feeling of silent threat; that he might drop it and soil the white table cloth, that the food might leave traces on his face, that he might chew too noisily or open his mouth before he swallowed. He had overheard Aunt Cherie telling Mum that he was far too thin for a six-year-old and should be encouraged to eat more. Malcolm was glad when he heard Mum reply that he was fine, that he would gain weight as he grew up. He didn't like eating, and was always relieved when the last piece of food was gone and no mishap had occurred. Dinnertime was like balancing on a narrow ledge; one slip, and you might get hurt.

"Malcolm."

Father was speaking, and this time Malcolm did drop the fork. It made only a small noise and fortunately none of the food landed on the table cloth, but to Malcolm, the sound was like an explosion in his ears. He raised his head and saw that Father was frowning at him, the You-know-what-I-mean frown. Malcolm was suddenly very cold. He did not know what he had done wrong, except dropping the fork, and that had been after Father had spoken to him. He could not ask, of course. That would be disrespectful, and there were few things Father hated more than disrespect. He waited in silence, not daring even to pick up the fork.

Father's frown deepened.

"Your mother was speaking to you, Malcolm."

Malcolm swallowed. He had been so distracted by trying not to let go of his fork that he had forgotten to be polite and give an answer, even though he knew that he was to reply respectfully every time an adult spoke to him, and keep quiet the rest of the time. He knew it, but sometimes he forgot. It was something he could not seem to change.

"Yes sir," he said, licking his lips which had gone very dry. "I'm sorry, Mum."

She nodded and turned back to her plate.

"Eat your dinner, Malcolm," she said quietly.

He did, but the vegetables and potatoes tasted of nothing as he mechanically put them in his mouth and chewed. Father had resumed eating, ignoring him, but Malcolm knew that he was angry. Forgetting about the Rules - any of the Rules - was _not acceptable_. Malcolm's hand tightened on his fork. His stomach was beginning to hurt again, as it often did these days. Sometimes at night the pain became so bad that Malcolm cried a little before he went to sleep. Crying helped; there was something hard and knotty sitting right below his ribs, which seemed to loosen a little while he allowed the tears to soak into his pillow. Right now, of course, he couldn't cry, not with Father sitting across from him. Crying was for babies, like two-year-old Maddy, and boys were not supposed to cry at all. It was one of the Rules: there would be no whining and griping in Father's presence. Boys didn't cry, and Reeds didn't cry, and Malcolm was a Reed boy. Father would not let him grow up to be a coward.

After dinner, Malcolm remained sitting on his chair while Mum cleared the table and carried Madeline to the nursery. He knew he had to wait for Father to excuse him, and also knew that it was not going to happen. Father's look had told him that very clearly.

Father was reading the newspapers, and Malcolm followed his eyes as they passed across the printed pages. He was going to look up any minute now, and while Malcolm was terrified of what would follow, at the same time he almost wished for Father to raise his head. The longer he had to wait, the harder the knot below his ribs would get, and Malcolm knew that it could be very difficult to hold back the tears when the knot was burning and hurting in his stomach.

Finally, Father did look up. He didn't look angry, but Malcolm knew that it made no difference.

"Go to my study," Father said, folding up the newspaper and handing it to Mum, who had returned from the nursery to do the dishes.

"Yes sir," Malcolm replied softly as he slid off his chair. The pain in his stomach was almost bad enough to make him cry, but fortunately it hadn't showed in his voice. He walked across the room to Father's study, opening the large, dark door. After he had quietly closed it behind himself, he remained standing where he was, his head lowered so he could only see his feet and part of the floor. He could not cry. He would not cry. He was a Reed.

The study door opened and Malcolm raised his head. Father gave him only a brief glance, then closed the door behind himself. He went over to the desk and sorted through some papers, frowning as he read a few lines. Then he opened a drawer and placed the papers inside. Malcolm found himself beginning to feel sick when Father turned to open the closet. The tears were back, threatening to rise into his eyes, and it was all he could do not to blink and make them fall. He could not cry.

Father turned back around and looked at him. In his hand, he was holding the stick.

"Malcolm," he said.

The pain in Malcolm's stomach was raging like fire.

"Yes sir," he said, still focused on keeping the tears at bay. Father frowned at his tone; he didn't like it when Malcolm failed to speak up in a normal voice.

"Come here."

Malcolm knew he should be giving an answer, but he couldn't without betraying the tears that were rising closer to the surface. He knew that this was not how a Reed should have acted, but the pain in his stomach was becoming too much for him to bear. His legs trembled as he stood in front of Father.

"You know why I have to do this," Father said.

"Y-yes sir," Malcolm whispered. It was a lie; he had no idea why Father had to do this, why he stood here almost every week waiting to receive his punishment. He never knew what he was being punished for, and Father never told him.

"It's because you're a bad boy," Father told him. "I don't want to do this, but I have to. One day you'll thank me. You'll understand that I'm doing this to help you."

"Yes sir." Malcolm lowered his head.

"Good. Pull down your trousers."

Malcolm did as he was told, and, as always, closed his eyes when his underpants dropped around his ankles. Mum said that it was bad to be naked in front of other people, and he didn't understand why Father would want him to do something that was bad. There had to be a reason, but Malcolm did not know it, and he felt more ashamed every time he was ordered to do it.

"Lie down on the chair," Father said.

Malcolm obeyed. His stomach sent another wave of pain through his body as he lay down prone on the hard seat of the desk chair, and he had to grit his teeth not to gag. The tears were falling freely now, and there was nothing Malcolm could do to stop it.

He could hear the stick whistle through the air. A second later, pain exploded in his bare backside, and he began to sob.

"Stop it."

The stick came down a second time, and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip. It didn't help; the sobs came out all the same, and his tears fell onto the carpet.

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" Father asked.

Malcolm tried to answer and failed, and this time, the stick came down so hard that Malcolm couldn't suppress a cry of pain.

"Why am I doing this?" Father repeated.

"Be-because I'm a bad boy," Malcolm managed.

"And?"

The next blow hurt so bad that Malcolm couldn't speak, and could only gasp for air between the loud sobs that escaped him. Snot and tears were trailing down from his face, and he could barely see anymore.

"I asked you a question, boy!"

Father hit him twice before Malcolm finally managed to answer.

"B-because y-you w-want to h-help me."

His backside felt as if it were on fire. Afraid that he was going to be sick, Malcolm laid his face on his hands that were clenched around the edge of the chair, shoving his knuckles into his mouth. Again, the stick connected with his bare skin, and this time it hurt even worse, as if someone were cutting him with a knife. Malcolm screamed behind his clenched fist, and for a moment the world faded away, leaving him in a haze of tears and agony.

Father's voice seemed to come from far away. "You're making me do this!" he yelled, and through his pain and fear, Malcolm was dimly aware that Father's voice had taken on a strange tone... as if he were scared? No, that couldn't be, Father was never scared. "I'm doing it to help you! Don't you ever forget that, boy! You hear me, _don't - you- ever- forget_!"

Each of the words was accompanied by a blow, harder and angrier than those he had received before. Malcolm tried to scream but he couldn't. The knot in his stomach seemed to have exploded, releasing waves of pain into his body, and all Malcolm could do was try and ride them out. Sobbing quietly, he lay on the chair and waited for the stick to come down again.

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Bad boy

, he thought, _I'm a bad boy, Father loves me, Mum says he loves me and he wants to help me, I'm making him do it because I'm such a bad boy, can't cry, can't cry, boys don't cry and I won't either, I won't, I won't, won't be a bad boy..._

"Get up."

Father had laid the stick aside. His voice was quiet again, and Malcolm sensed that his anger was gone, at least for the moment.

"Come on, get up."

Malcolm tried to push himself off the chair, but his legs were shaking and gave way as he tried to straighten himself up. Terrified that Father would be angry, Malcolm tried again, and suddenly felt a large hand on his arm, steadying him.

"Come on now."

Malcolm was frightened by the touch, but he offered no resistance. Father helped him to his feet, letting go as soon as Malcolm was standing.

"Get yourself dressed."

Malcolm was afraid he would lose his balance and fall when he he tried to bend down, but he didn't dare to disobey. His trembling hands found first his underpants, then his trousers, and pulled them up. Fresh tears rose into his eyes as the fabric touched his throbbing backside, but he managed to hold them back. Maybe one day he wouldn't cry at all, and then Father would be proud of him. He was only little, but one day he would take his punishment without a sound, and maybe, just maybe Father would smile and say that Malcolm was a good boy. Malcolm was determined to make it happen.

Father had taken a seat on his desk chair, not looking at him as he waved at the door. "You can go now. We're done."

"Yes sir," Malcolm said quietly. For a moment, he lingered, remembering the one time Father had told him to come back after he had dismissed him. Malcolm had returned to the desk, sick with fear that Father would want to punish him again. But Father had only looked at him for a long moment, then he had reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of peppermints.

"Here," he had said. "Now go."

Malcolm had taken the peppermints, too dumbfounded even to say thank you, and had left the room clutching the only present Father had ever given him. He had never eaten a single one of the mints, hiding the bag under his socks where he had hoped no one would find it. However, Mum had discovered it several weeks later, and for reasons Malcolm could not understand she had cried when she had taken it out of the drawer. Malcolm had never seen the bag again.

Father raised his head, looking surprised when he saw that Malcolm was still standing here. "You can go, boy," he repeated a little impatiently.

"Yes sir."

Father was no longer looking at him, and Malcolm turned around, walking towards the door. His backside was still burning, and he knew he would have to sleep on his stomach for the next one or two nights. Later, Mum would come to his bed after she had given Maddy her bottle, and would silently spread a cool salve on his sore behind. The salve seemed to contain some sort of medicine; it helped with the pain and made the welts fade more quickly than they would have without it. Mum had told him that the teachers at school must never see the results of his punishments, or they would come to take him away and lock him up in a prison house for bad boys. The idea was so terrifying that Malcolm sometimes had nightmares about it, and he was very careful never to let anyone notice that the welts were hurting him when he had to sit down. So far, he had been lucky; none of the teachers seemed to have realized that he was really a bad boy who belonged in prison.

He closed the door to Father's study behind himself and for a moment rested his hand on the dark, smooth wood of its surface. In there was Father, Father who loved him and wanted him to be a good boy, and Malcolm wished more than anything in the world that he could show Father how hard he was trying to be good enough. Maybe, one day, he would be. Malcolm smiled at the thought and, in an almost tender gesture, ran his hand across the surface of the door before he turned away.

* * *

To: Lieutenant Malcolm Reed

Transmission from Kota Baru, Malaysia

March 21, 2153

Malcolm,

I'll admit that I am unsure how to begin this letter. Your sister Madeline informed me that she talked to you after your mother's death two months ago, and that you are doing well. I'm glad to hear it.

Malcolm, we haven't spoken in a long time, and I won't be insincere and pretend that I do not know why. We have never been close, and I am aware that I haven't been a very good father, not to you and not to Madeline. I cannot blame you for leaving home as soon as you could, and never looking back.

There is little I can offer as an excuse or an explanation for the way I raised you, only that it was the only way I had ever known. Your grandfather was seldom at home when I was young, and acknowledged my presence only when he was disciplining me - as, I am afraid, I have done with you. I know now that it was not what you or your sister needed from me, but there is nothing I can do to change the past. You and Madeline have moved away, and I believe I am being realistic, assuming that you hardly want me to intrude on the life you are leading now. You found your place in the world, and you did it all by yourself, with little or no support on my part. I have found myself thinking of you many times since your mother died, and I regret deeply that I have never been part of your life the way a father should be. It may be too late now, but I would still like you to know that I am proud of you, Malcolm.

I wish you the best of luck for the future.

Sincerely,

Your father

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To: Stuart Reed, Admiral in retirement

Kota Baru, Malaysia

May 26, 2153

Dear Mr. Reed,

I'm sure you'll be surprised to receive my letter, and I guess I should apologize for writing to you at all. I realize that I'm poking my nose into things that are none of my business, and your son is going to kill me when he finds out. Frankly, however, I don't really see another way.

My name is Charles Tucker, and I've worked with Malcolm for a little over three years now. I'm aware that the two of you aren't very close, and so I'm fairly sure that he didn't tell you about our relationship. Fact is, however, that I care about your son very much, which is why I decided to write to you, hoping you'll forgive my interference with your private business.

Malcolm's never talked much about his family, and until your letter of two months ago, I only knew that he left home at 18 to join Starfleet. He mentioned that you and he had never had the easiest of relationships, but it was only when your letter arrived that he really talked about the way he remembers his childhood. It's not my place to judge, although I won't pretend to understand your reasons for handling things the way you did. I know Malcolm didn't answer your letter, but he has been thinking about it ever since. Malcolm isn't the easiest person to get to know (and yes, I am speaking from experience), but I believe I can tell when he is upset.

I realize I'm not in the position to give advice to either of you. Still, I'll admit that I can't stand by and watch when I see that something's hurting Malcolm the way your letter did. You touched on a part of his life he has been trying to forget, and left him to deal with it after more than twelve years of silence. I'm sorry to be so direct, sir, but I believe you owe him at least another try.

Hoping to hear from you soon.

Best regards,

Charles Tucker

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To: Commander Charles Tucker

Transmission from Kota Baru, Malaysia

May 27, 2153

Commander,

I was indeed surprised to receive your letter, as I had not expected any answer at all. However, there is no need to apologize for telling me what I should have realized myself. You are right, I do owe my son another try. I would like to thank you for contacting me, and I'm glad that Malcolm has found someone who cares for his well-being.

Good luck on your journey.

Stuart Reed

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To: Lieutenant Malcolm Reed

Transmission from Kota Baru, Malaysia

May 27, 2153

Dear Malcolm,

I hope you are doing well. I would like to apologize for not writing to you sooner, and maybe I should apologize for attempting to contact you at all. Perhaps, I should have left things as they were instead of stirring up the past.

However, as Commander Tucker rightly pointed out in his letter to me, now that I have written my first letter, I cannot simply leave it at that. You are my son, and even if I can't change the way I treated you as a child, I want to do my best to avoid past mistakes and learn from them.

After I received Commander Tucker's letter, I realized that there are many things I do not know about you, things that I could have found out long ago. I visited Starfleet's official site, and I must say that I was impressed with the Ordnance Department and their list of recently completed developments - many of which you can claim credit for. Your contributions more than merit your placement as Enterprise's Armory Officer, and I'm proud to see that my son has found success both in his career and personal life.

Malcolm, I'd like you to know that I'll fully understand if you decide not to reply to my letter, and I won't contact you again if you do not want me to. Please know, however, that I am proud of you and I love you, even though I failed to show it to you.

I wish you the best of luck.

Your father

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To: Stuart Reed, Admiral in retirement

Kota Baru, Malaysia

May 30, 2153

Dear Father,

I hope you are well. I'll admit that I'm not quite sure how to write this letter, since I never expected you to contact me and wasn't sure how to react when you did. I believe I would not have answered, had it not been for Commander Tucker's intervention. At first, I wasn't happy to learn that he had contacted you on his own initiative. However, after I had received your letter of three days ago, I came to believe that he did the right thing, after all.

What you say is true, there is little we can do to change the past or the fact that we haven't spoken in over twelve years. There are also many things I do not know about you, and if we want to "catch up", as Commander Tucker would say, I believe we have a long road ahead of us.

However, I am confident that we can manage, even though I am, to quote the Commander again, a difficult person to get to know. Maybe it is a family trait.

I would like to thank you for your letters, sir, and I hope that we can stay in touch. By the way, I have included images of the new phase pistol we are developing (you won't find the blue prints on our site, since they're still in prototype stage). I thought you might be interested. If we can compensate for the residual particle drift, the new model will exceed the old ones in both velocity and penetration. It should be quite the breakthrough.

Sir, I realize that there are many things I haven't said, mainly because I'm not sure how to put my thoughts into words. I would like you to know, however, that I am wishing you well, and that I will be looking forward to your letters, should you decide to continue our correspondence.

Your son,

Malcolm

* * *

I'd love to hear what you think!

H.G.Wells

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